Farnham Malus

[Maxwell]

Player Name: Maxwell
Character Name: Farnham Malus
Age: 16
Race: Human become zombie.
Height: 6' 2''
Weight: 180 lbs.

Physical description: Once a strapping, tanned young lad, Farnham is now a creature of white-spotted, decaying flesh. Though he has not been one of the undead for long, the quick-working mechanics of corpse rot have already turned his skin an ashen grey and deprived him of most of his dirt-brown hair. The whites of his light-blue eyes have grown shriveled and yellow, his gums are brown and his teeth have started to fall out. His muscles, well-toned from years of labour, remain largely preserved still, but the skin covering them stretches more taut with each passing day. Though some features remain from the days when he was handsome, a sharp chin has little chance of counteracting blue lips and black nails... 'unattractive', would be a compliment to the monstrous remains of this once-fair young man.


Possessions: N/A

Powers/Strength:
Inexhaustible stamina, immunity to pain, immune to suffocation, starvation, and various other assorted mortal ailments.

Weaknesses:
In a constant state of decay (with increasingly brittle bones, decayed musculature, and so on), considerably shortened life span (you can only rot for so long before there's nothing left to rot, y'know), severely stunted social life, at great risk of being run through by every lantern-jawed goody two-shoes with a sword.

History:
Farnham was just another city boy among thousands, born to a family that, while not starving, certainly had no luxury in their lives. He spent his days apprenticed to a baker, and dreamt of one day taking over the bakery and getting married. He would flirt with the lasses and brawl with the lads, and get up in the early morn to work for his master. Life was beautiful, or at least it wasn't so bad. That all changed, however, as one fell day, something went horribly, horribly wrong. Farnham had no idea what happened - whether a drunken wizard mispronounced a spell, or some berzerk sorcerer made his last stand, or maybe some god or other descended right outside the bakery. For all he knew, he might even be the unknowing prince of some far away kingdom, hidden away for all of his life, to now be the victim of some sort of assassination attempt. It might even be the case that maybe, just maybe, the gnome-built oven malfunctioned and blew up.

Well... whatever happened, it did not have a happy ending. As Farnham crawled out from under the pile of rock that was all that remained of the bakery, he realized that his battered muscles obeyed him without protest, and that he felt no pain. At first, he thought himself blessed, but he soon realized that he was in fact dead. He felt no taste, no smell, no pain or hunger, and as the flies began to flock around his walking corpse, it dawned on him. Naturally, as his decay increased he became more secluded, roaming the downtown streets and the historical district wrapped in cloth, stench and a cloud of flies in a desperate and feeble attempt to find someone, or something that could help him.

[Julen]

Approved.